No More Learning

for much we need
Without disguise ourselves explain.
Oneguine, hast forgotten yet
The hour when--Fate so willed--we met
In the lone garden and the lane?
How meekly then I heard you preach--
To-day it is my turn to teach.

XLII

"Oneguine, I was younger then,
And better, if I judge aright;
I loved you--what did I obtain?
Affection how did you requite?
But with austerity! --for you
No novelty--is it not true? --
Was the meek love a maiden feels.
But now--my very blood congeals,
Calling to mind your icy look
And sermon--but in that dread hour
I blame not your behaviour--
An honourable course ye took,
Displayed a noble rectitude--
My soul is filled with gratitude!

XLIII

"Then, in the country, is't not true?
And far removed from rumour vain;
I did not please you. Why pursue
Me now, inflict upon me pain? --
Wherefore am I your quarry held? --
Is it that I am now compelled
To move in fashionable life,
That I am rich, a prince's wife? --
Because my lord, in battles maimed,
Is petted by the Emperor?
--
That my dishonour would ensure
A notoriety proclaimed,
And in society might shed
A bastard fame prohibited?

XLIV

"I weep. And if within your breast
My image hath not disappeared,
Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed,
Your conversation cold and hard,
If the choice in my power were,
To lawless love I should prefer--
And to these letters and these tears.
For visions of my childish years
Then ye were barely generous,
Age immature averse to cheat--
But now--what brings you to my feet? --
How mean, how pusillanimous!
A prudent man like you and brave
To shallow sentiment a slave!

XLV

"Oneguine, all this sumptuousness,
The gilding of life's vanities,
In the world's vortex my success,
My splendid house and gaieties--
What are they? Gladly would I yield
This life in masquerade concealed,
This glitter, riot, emptiness,
For my wild garden and bookcase,--
Yes! for our unpretending home,
Oneguine--the beloved place
Where the first time I saw your face,--
Or for the solitary tomb
Wherein my poor old nurse doth lie
Beneath a cross and shrubbery.

XLVI

"'Twas possible then, happiness--
Nay, near--but destiny decreed--
My lot is fixed--with thoughtlessness
It may be that I did proceed--
With bitter tears my mother prayed,
And for Tattiana, mournful maid,
Indifferent was her future fate.
I married--now, I supplicate--
For ever your Tattiana leave.
Your heart possesses, I know well,
Honour and pride inflexible.
I love you--to what end deceive? --
But I am now another's bride--
For ever faithful will abide. "

XLVII

She rose--departed. But Eugene
Stood as if struck by lightning fire.